Bags and Burdens

She carries her bags and her burdens on her shoulders
They are heavy and weigh her down
The handles stretch with the weight of it
Almost to the point of breaking.
She wipes the sweat from her brow
and drudges forward
blood
sweat
tears
no one notices.
She dreams of being nonexistent,
of hiding in a dark corner of an empty house
of reading books and writing poems
ignoring the outside world that rejects her.
She dreams of Plath-like peace
in a world of chaotic melancholy.
Instead she fumbles with keys at the door
drops the bags to the floor
and collapses in a chair.
She made it.
No where in particular but she made it.
At least for today
But should she not make it tomorrow
she doubts anyone would notice
does anyone even listen?
Listen?
Listen?
Writhing in agony late at night in front of
what seems like a fluorescent screen
Tears rolling down her face as she writes
To no one
for nothing
but for her own eyes.
Will she make it tomorrow?